The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 16

Mancha shifted his position uneasily. But there was a cunning look on his face as he retorted swiftly,--

"You're a'mighty hasty to lay your hands on his reckoning. How's it that you're ready to part two thou' for 'em?"

There was a moment's silence as the two men eyed each other. It seemed as if each were endeavoring to fathom the other's thoughts. Then the money-lender spoke, and his voice conveyed a concentration of hate that bit upon the air with an incisiveness which startled his companion.

"Because I intend to crush him as I would a rattlesnake. Because I wish to ruin him so that he will be left in my debt. So that I can hound him from this place by holding that debt over his head. It is worth two thousand to me to possess that power. Now, will you part?"

This explanation appealed to the worst side of the Mexican's nature.

This hatred was after his own heart. Lablache was aware that such would be the case. That is why he made it. He was accustomed to play upon the feelings of people with whom he dealt--as well as their pocket. Pedro Mancha grinned complacently. He thought he understood his employer.

"Hand over the bills. Guess I'll part. The price is slim, but it's not a bad deal."

Lablache oozed over to the safe. He opened it, keeping one heavy eye upon his companion. He took no chances--he trusted no one, especially Pedro Mancha. Presently he returned with a roll of notes. It contained the exact amount. The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the green-backed bills. His lips moistened beneath his mustache--his eyes looked wilder than ever. Lablache understood his customer thoroughly. A loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket. It is probable that the brown-faced desperado knew this.

At last the money-lender held out the money. He held out both hands, one to give and the other to receive. Pedro pa.s.sed him the I.O.U.'s and took the bills. One swift glance a.s.sured Lablache that the coveted papers were all there. Then he pointed to the door.

"Our transaction is over. Go!"

He had had enough of his companion. He had no hesitation in thus peremptorily dismissing him.

"You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine."

"I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them impelled him towards the door. He moved backwards, keeping his face turned towards the money-lender. At this moment Lablache was at his best. His was a dominating personality. There was no cowardice in his nature--at least no physical cowardice. Doubtless, had it come to a struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a struggle. He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a would-be a.s.sailant might have. Will and unflinching courage are splendid a.s.sets. And, amongst others, this man possessed both.

Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and pa.s.sed out. Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened. He was well under cover. The door was open. He was behind it. He knew better than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him from without. Then he kicked the door to. Making a complete circuit of the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where he swiftly locked and bolted it. Then he drew an iron shutter across the light panelling and secured it.

"Good," he muttered, as, sucking in a heavy breath, he returned to the stove and turned his back to it. "It's as well to understand Mexican nature."

Then he lounged into his basket chair and rubbed his fleshy hands reflectively. There was a triumphant look upon his repulsive features.

"Quite right, friend Pedro, it's not a bad deal," he said to himself, blinking at the red light of the fire. "Not half bad. Seven thousand dollars for two thousand dollars, and every cent of it realizable." He shook with inward mirth. "The Hon. William Bunning-Ford will now have to disgorge every stick of his estate. Good, good!"

Then he relapsed into deep thought. Presently he roused himself from his reverie and prepared for bed.

"But I'll give him a chance. Yes, I'll give him a chance," he muttered, as, after undergoing the simple operation of removing his coat, he stretched himself upon his bed and drew the blankets about him. "If he'll consent to renounce any claim, fancied or otherwise, he may have to Joaquina Allandale's regard I'll refrain from selling him up. Yes, Verner Lablache will forego his money--for a time."

The great bed shook as the monumental money-lender suppressed a chuckle.

Then he turned over, and his stertorous inhalations soon suggested that the great man slept.

Shylock, the Jew, determined on having his pound of flesh. But a woman outwitted him.

CHAPTER X

"AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS

It was almost dark when Jacky returned to the ranch. She had left "Lord"

Bill at the brink of the great keg, whence he had returned to his own place. Her first thought, on entering the house, was for the letter which she had left for her uncle. It was gone. She glanced round the room uncertainly. Then she stood gazing into the stove, while she idly drummed with her gauntleted fingers upon the back of a chair. She had as yet removed neither her Stetson hat nor her gauntlets.

Her strong, dark face was unusually varying in its expression. Possibly her thoughts were thus indexed. Now, as she stood watching the play of the fire, her great, deep eyes would darken with a grave, almost anxious expression; again they would smile with a world of untold happiness in their depths. Again they would change, in a flash, to a hard, cold gleam of hatred and unyielding purpose; then slowly, a tender expression, such as that of a mother for Her new-born babe, would creep into them and shine down into the depths of the fire with a world of sweet sympathy.

But through all there was a tight compression of the lips, which spoke of the earnest purpose which governed her thoughts; a slight pucker of the brows, which surely told of a great concentration of mind.

Presently she roused herself, and, walking to where a table-bell stood, rang sharply upon it. Her summons was almost immediately answered by the entry of a servant.

Jacky turned as the door opened, and fired an abrupt question.

"Has Uncle John been in, Mamie?"

The girl's face had resumed its usual strong, kindly expression.

Whatever was hidden behind that calm exterior, she had no intention of giving a chance observer any clew to it.

"No, miss," the servant replied, in that awestruck tone which domestics are apt to use when sharply interrogated. She was an intelligent-looking girl. Her dark skin and coa.r.s.e black hair p.r.o.nounced her a half-breed.

Her mistress had said "blood is thicker than water." All the domestics under Jacky's charge hailed from the half-breed camp.

"Was my message delivered to him?"

Unconcernedly as she spoke she waited with some anxiety for the answer.

"Oh, yes, miss. Silas delivered it himself. The master was in company with Mr. Lablache and the doctor, miss," added the girl, discreetly.

"And what did he say?"

"He sent Silas for the letter, miss."

"He didn't say what time he would return, I suppose?"

"No, miss--" She hesitated and fumbled at the door handle.

"Well?" as the girl showed by her att.i.tude that there was something she had left unsaid.

Jacky's question rang acutely in the quiet room.

"Silas--" began the girl, with a deprecating air of unbelief--"you know what strange notions he takes--he said--"

The girl stopped in confusion under the steady gaze of her mistress.

"Speak up, girl," exclaimed Jacky, impatiently. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, miss," the girl blurted out desperately. "Only Silas said as the master didn't seem well like."

"Ah! That will do." Then, as the girl still stood at the door, "You can go."

The dismissal was peremptory, and the half-breed had no choice but to depart. She had hoped to have heard something interesting, but her mistress was never given to being communicative with servants.

When the door had closed behind the half-breed Jacky turned again towards the stove. Again she was plunged in deep thought. This time there could be no mistake as to its tenor. Her heart was racked with an anxiety which was not altogether new to it. The sweet face was pale and her eyelids flickered ominously. The servant's veiled meaning was quite plain to her. Brave, hardy as this girl of the prairie was, the fear that was ever in her heart had suddenly a.s.sumed the proportions of a crushing reality. She loved her uncle with an affection that was almost maternal. It was the love of a strong, resolute nature for one of a kindly but weak disposition. She loved the gray-headed old man, whose affection had made her life one long, long day of happiness, with a tenderness which no recently-acquired faults of his could alienate.

He--and now another--was her world. A world in which it was her joy to dwell. And now--now; what of the present? Racked by losses brought about through the agency of his all-absorbing pa.s.sion, the weak old man was slowly but surely taking to drowning his consciousness of the appalling calamity which he had consistently set to work to bring about, and which in his lucid moments he saw looming heavily over his house, in drink.